


Participation Is Voluntary

by moonsmoocher



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Trans Female Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonsmoocher/pseuds/moonsmoocher
Summary: “Dr. Mercymorn is not accepting new patients at this time, but I can give you information about a free support group she runs. Would that be okay?”I don’t know if it would be okay, but I’ve already come this far. “I suppose it will have to do.”“First, can I get your name?"Gideon rarely, if ever, used my full name. Since she died, I don’t either. “Harrow.”
Relationships: Camilla Hect/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Participation Is Voluntary

I miss Gideon. I miss her warmth. I miss her awful jokes. I miss the way she would kiss me on my forehead, saying I was too short, before making a big show of bending over to kiss me properly. I miss how much I didn’t mind. I miss the shitty coffee she loved. I used to hate coffee but now I have a cup of her disgusting bean juice every morning without fail.

I take to the whole _grieving widow_ thing almost too well. I know it’s stupid, that Gideon would would slap her knee about “her midnight maven” or some such inane bullshit. But it doesn’t make my grief any less. Sometimes I feel like she’s still around. Maybe if I believed in ghosts, she would be there, yelling at me to get my ass in gear and move on with my life.

Grief isn’t so simple like that. I know I’m not moving on, and it’s been a year. I know I’m still at her little cabin in Bumfuck, Nowhere. I know I haven’t chopped firewood like she asked, that I’m wasting away in the chill. She would be furious. Just thinking about how angry Gideon would be, how frustrated, how much she would wrap me up in her arms is enough warmth to get by.

I met her dad at her funeral. John. She never mentioned him. I wonder if she even knew John existed. I remember when she first met my parents, a snotty little girl with attitude problems, as a kid. Not that I was much better then. We were her foster family until my parents killed themselves. We hated each other, but not as much as we looked out for each other. John said Gideon’s mom died in childbirth and he would have been a horrible father. I believe him because, without John, I never would have met Gideon.

The kindest thing he’s ever done for her was give me this little card that told me about grief counseling. I’ve thrown it away at least four times but I can hear Gideon shout at me to call the number. That’s where I am now, shivering in our old tub, staring at the house phone, because I still can’t bring myself to get a cell phone that isn’t Gideon’s.

I’ve already entered the number for Dr. Mercymorn in the address book. It sits there on the phone as my thumb hovers over the button to dial. I’m shaking so badly that, were my skeleton not encased in a pitiful sack of meat, I’m sure it would fall apart entirely.

It’s ringing. I must have hit _call_ while shivering. Maybe it’s the memory of Gideon pushing me on. She would have just called the damn number and handed me the phone, leaving me to flounder. She would have laughed her ass off at it. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel so bad when the other end picks up.

“Dr. Mercymorn’s office,” comes a warm, crisp voice from the other end.

“I’d like to inquire about grief counseling,” I say. I know my voice is thin and weak because I’ve been crying for an hour in a room temperature bathwater, and my delivery has more waves than the pads of my fingers.

When the voice on the other end speaks again, it’s softer. “Dr. Mercymorn is not accepting new patients at this time, but I can give you information about a free support group she runs. Would that be okay?”

I don’t know if it would be okay, but I’ve already come this far. “I suppose it will have to do.”

“First, can I get your name?"

Gideon rarely, if ever, used my full name. Since she died, I don’t either. “Harrow.”

* * *

I’m drinking with two women I met at Dr. Mercymorn’s grief club, as the doctor herself called it. One of them is Ianthe and I hate her. She has wispy white-blonde hair that looks like it would be a pain in the ass to take care of if she didn’t keep it in a bun. She’s wearing a gauzy white blouse and sinfully tight golden pencil skirt. She has a prosthetic arm. She lost her some man whose name was Tern but all she ever talked about at grief club was how that drove a wedge between her and her twin sister. I don’t know if she cares about this Tern guy all that much. She’s pretty and flirted with me when she found out that Gideon was my wife. I’m really tempted to go home with her because I hate myself that much right now that I’ll sleep with a crass woman who went to a group counseling session for loss to pick up someone vulnerable like myself.

The other woman is Camilla. She lost her fiancé, who she didn’t give a name. She’s a tall, handsome woman with severe features and cool brown hair in a sharp bob. She’s wearing an expensive suit and I don’t think she’s taken the stick out of her ass since whatever medical school she graduated from stuck it there. She introduced herself as _Medical Examiner Camilla Hect._ I don’t hate her, but I think she’s insufferable and she’s built like Gideon was. I wonder if she gives good hugs.

Ianthe is nursing her fourth or fifth neon monstrosity and Camilla has barely touched her martini. I’m having white wine because reds were Gideon’s favorite and I’m going to have to put her behind me if I’m going home to let Ianthe fuck me until I can’t think about anything anymore, most especially not Gideon.

She’s touching my arm with hers because I don’t like the way the prosthetic feels on my skin and I keep flinching away when she touches me with it. It feels like dead flesh, somehow, even though I know it’s just plastic and metals. It’s cold and the tips feel like bone.

Ianthe whispers in my ear, “What do you say we ditch the stiff and get out of here, Harry.”

That’s another thing I hate about her. She calls me _Harry._ I corrected her enough times to know she’s doing it on purpose. I’m too tired and pent up to fight her on it anymore. Part of me likes to have a pet name again. Harrow was Gideon’s girl. Harry is not.

“I can’t believe you’re going to sleep with that woman, Harrowhark,” said Camilla, on her other side. She takes a sip of her martini and grimaces. She sighs. “All paths through grief are valid.”

“Don’t quote Dr. Mercymorn at me. I’m not nearly inebriated enough for that,” I say as evenly as I can, which is not nearly enough to carry the scorn that I want.

“But you _are_ inebriated enough to let Ianthe do that?” Camilla shoots back.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here, dears. I might take offense to that,” Ianthe cooes over my shoulder. “Besides, Harry wants me. Don’t you, Harry?”

“What I want is for you to shut that stupid mouth of yours and let me finish my wine,” I say acidly, but she’s not wrong. I do want her. I want to forget Gideon, at least for one night.

Ianthe takes the glass out of my hands and drains it before I realize what’s happening. “There. You’re finished. Let’s go, Harry.”

* * *

It’s been six weeks since I started grief club. I still have coffee every morning. I still spend enough time each week crying that I could consider it a part time job. Every week after grief club, Ianthe and Camilla go to the same bar, and I end up sleeping with Ianthe because that night I don’t cry about Gideon. I can’t even remember what she looks like with Ianthe’s fingers inside me. In the morning, my body hurts so much that I don’t feel the memory of Gideon’s arms pulling me back into bed for just one more kiss. I call Camilla and she gives me a ride out to the church where I take Gideon’s oversized, beat up truck back to her cabin, and then I take a scalding hot shower until my skin is red enough to look as painful as it feels.

This week, Ianthe was not at grief club, so I’m at the bar with Camilla alone. I wonder if Ianthe got bored of me. She certainly acts detached enough in bed, though I think she just gets off on using me. Let her, for all I care. We’re both consenting adults making unhealthy choices on purpose.

“It’s nicer without Ianthe here,” says Camilla.

“Anything is nicer without her than it is with,” I say, and Camilla honest-to-god laughs. That’s the first time I’ve heard it. She sounds like a bear. It’s deep and rich and it reminds me of Gideon’s warm, full-bodied laughs at her own jokes. “Was that really that humorous?”

“Not particularly, just reminds me of something Pal would have said,” Camilla says, slowing herself to a light aftershocks of chuckles as she remembers something.

“Was Pal your fiancé?” I ask, and I don’t know if I regret my question or not. Camilla has always been a mystery, but her guard is down right now.

She lets me in. “Palamedes was my fiancé, yes. Sometimes you remind me of him, Harrowhark,” she says warmly.

“He must have been… tough to deal with,” I say. I’m well aware that it took Gideon years to get under my skin enough to see the real me. She loved to tease me with it.

“You’re not nearly as thorny as you think you are. I deal with enough grieving widows to know when it’s an act, and I know you’re punishing yourself. I saw it in plenty in Pal, too. He was an oncologist. Damn good one too. Sometimes got too close to his patients. Even fell in love with one.” Camilla is crying now, much more than she ever did at grief club.

I want to ask more, because Camilla is very pretty when she cries. It’s selfish of me, absolutely horrible, but I know I’m not going to get out of this without hurting someone. Either I go home alone and scream myself to sleep because I don’t get a reprieve from the memory of Gideon this week, or I push Camilla and maybe she’ll let me comfort her and I might hate myself a little less for being of use to someone again, and _then_ I go home alone. But for all that, the rules of grief club keep my tongue at bay. _Participation is voluntary._

Camilla does not offer more information about Palamedes, instead quietly sobbing into her beer. She has a new drink every week, only ever one, and she doesn’t finish them since she is driving. It occurs to me that I am much too drunk to be driving, and if I killed myself, Gideon would never let me hear the end of it.

I get out my phone to look up a taxi or something to ride back home, since I did not come drinking with the intent of going home tonight out of habit more than anything. The prices to Gideon’s cabin are absurd and I’d have to use her card to cover it because I didn’t have enough cash on me.

“Harrowhark, do you need a ride home?” Camilla asks, pointing at my phone and the absurd price. Her voice was even, affectless almost, considering how much of a mess her face was.

I close my eyes for a moment. No different than it would be tomorrow morning. “If you don’t mind.”

“Actually, you should come to my place.” I raise my eyebrow at that. “You’re always running off with Ianthe,” she says, like that explains anything.

“I don’t think you’re offering what she gives me, Camilla. No offense,” I say.

“Cam. Call me Cam.”

“Only if you call me Harrow.”

Cam looks at me expectantly. “Does that mean you’re coming with me, Harrow?”

I sigh and nod. “Beats spending another night in that frozen coffin alone,” I say blithely.

“Cabin,” Cam corrects, her eyebrows knitting slightly in worry.

“I’m well aware of what I said.”

* * *

Cam is strong and warm and better at hugging than I had hoped. Not enough to beat Gideon, but worryingly close. I’m in Cam’s guest bed with her. She kisses my jawline and runs her hand through my hair. It’s tender and I don’t know if I want to like it, but I certainly do. I’m crying hard enough to wake the dead, to wake Gideon up and have her replace Cam. But of course she doesn’t. Gideon is dead.

Cam is alive, vitally so. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as alive as her. This is a bad decision, like the one to sleep with Ianthe. I’m in this woman’s arms while she takes Gideon and replaces her memories with Camilla. She’s whispered _it’s okay, Pal, I’m here_ at least twice. I don’t think she knows.

Ianthe lets me kiss her anywhere below the shoulder, but she never put her mouth near any part of me. I let Cam kiss me, but I can’t bring myself to kiss her back. Cam avoids my lips. I want to claim them, desperately, but I’m afraid of losing the memory of Gideon’s lips, firm and dry and chapped, the last memory I have of her before she died.

Sometime later, I wake. It’s darker than night in here, not a single source of light. I could reach over Cam to fumble with the lamp, but I don’t feel like waking her. Instead, shuffle in the bed, moving myself down so Cam’s forearm is under my neck instead of my back.

 _You’re doing so good, Harrow. I’m so proud of you baby,_ I can hear Gideon say nebulously around me.

She’s back. I shut my eyes tight as if somehow that can block out Gideon’s voice. God knows I’ve tried shutting her out of my ears, but that just makes Gideon louder. Gideon never follows me to Ianthe’s bed. I had hoped she would not follow me to Cam’s, but it seems I am not yet free of her.

_I’m just going out for a bit. I’ll be back before dinner, promise. I’m so proud, Harrow._

Gideon always tells me how proud of me she is but I can’t remember why. I hate that I can’t remember. I’ve convinced these two things Gideon says, night after night, are what she said to me before she kissed me and drove out of my life forever. It doesn’t matter if it’s reality because it’s the truth to me now.

Camilla’s hand brushes tears away from my cheek. “Are you okay, Harrow?”

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Gideon,” I say quietly. I hope that explains anything because I don’t understand what’s happening to me anymore. What am I supposed to tell her? That I’m hallucinating the last words she said to me before she got hit and killed by a drunk driver? That this happens every night and I want her to fuck me like Ianthe does to chase Gideon away? That I’m _haunted_ by my wife’s ghost?

Cam doesn’t say anything, but I feel her shift in the darkness. She pulls me close. I don’t hear Gideon again for the rest of the night.

* * *

It’s four weeks until Ianthe is back at grief club. She’s quiet and doesn’t talk to me or anyone. She doesn’t go drinking with me and Cam. I’m spending grief club nights with Cam now. I don’t know how, but being close with Cam keeps Gideon at bay at night. I spend time with her on her days off. The first time we went out to lunch. The next three times I simply go to her house.

On our third date, she claims my lips. It doesn’t hurt as much, letting Gideon’s memory go as much with Cam. I think about calling Cam my girlfriend after that. We don’t talk about it. I still can’t kiss her. When we sleep together, actual sleep, not just sex like I had with Ianthe, she only ever called me _Pal_ once more, the first time. She hasn’t mentioned him outside of grief club since when she told me his name.

This week, we only go drinking because it’s just what we do before I go to her house. I bring a change of clothes with me. Last week I left a toothbrush. I have a mug now, for coffee with Cam in the mornings. She doesn’t make coffee like Gideon did. Cam’s coffee is light and not bitter and she makes it with freshly ground beans and a press.

When we get in her house, it’s clear something is different. Cam can’t keep her hands off me, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear she stops touching my shoulders or arms for more than a second. It’s cloying. It’s comforting. I never want her to stop.

This is the first night we sleep in her bed and not the guest bed. She claims my lips four times before I fall asleep. Gideon does not wake me up.

In the morning, Cam makes our coffee and I eat a single piece of bread with butter on it. She hands me a key to her house, putting it in my palm. She folds my fingers over the grooved metal, but her hands stay on mine.

“You’re always welcome here, Harrow,” Cam says warmly.

“Are you sure you want to give me this? I could move in.”

Cam laughs. “I wouldn’t mind that. That is the logical end point of me giving you that key, after all. This house is so… empty. It only feels like a home when you’re here with me.”

I expect to write it off as the logical end point of the bad decision I made a month ago, but I know it’s not. It hasn’t been a bad decision after the first time. I take my free hand and put it on top of the pile. “I’m touched, Cam. I really am. I’ll think about it, okay?”

Cam smiles and kisses me. She tastes like coffee. I know, because I kiss her as well.

* * *

It’s three weeks until Ianthe forces us to go drinking after grief club. She’s back to her horrid self. I know she’s frustrated I won’t return her flirting this time. I sit on Cam’s side of the table, like I have been since I went home with her the first time. Ianthe is not happy. She leaves after only a single neon monstrosity. I’m glad to see her go.

I now have more clothes at home with Cam than I do at Gideon’s cabin. I don’t remember when I started thinking of Cam’s place as home. I spend most nights there, so it’s only fair that I think of it as home. I know I’ll soon have to make a decision on whether or not to move in with my girlfriend for good.

We’re sitting by the fireplace. I cut the wood while Cam was at work yesterday. It was exhausting. I have no idea how Gideon did it so much, but now I understood why she always wanted to have a fire the nights we did. It was nice to curl up in front of the flames, watching your hard work go up in smoke.

We kiss. Cam rolls her neck in that cute way she does when she gets ready to lie down for bed, but we’re just on the floor in front of the fire. It’s warm. Summer is coming fast. Soon we won’t need to have a fire, but for now, I’m keen to let Cam move her hands under my shirt and remove it, because it’s Cam and I trust her.

Cam is gentle, and it’s new, the gentleness. Gideon wanted to be cared for and doted on, to be wanted and serviced. Ianthe sucked lust from my marrow like she was dying of hunger, giving nothing in return, and I welcomed the emptiness she gave me then.

Cam makes love to me. She fills me up, slow, deliberate. She asks after me constantly. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so charming. It’s my first time with a woman like her and it’s wonderful. She is worried I would reject her for her body, but I do not. I could not reject her, because in that moment, I accept what I’ve known for a while. I am in love with Camilla Hect. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had because I love Cam, and that’s enough.

* * *

Next week is the last time we go to grief club. Ianthe is not there. We tell Dr. Mercymorn that this is our last time attending. She assures us that her doors are always open should we decide to come again. She gives us a curious look that Cam and I are _we_ now. I don’t know if she disapproves but I suspect she does.

When we get home, I finish moving the last of my things out of Gideon’s cabin. Cam talks over dinner about looking into selling the property. I don’t mind. I realize I haven’t thought of Gideon all week since Cam and I made love for the first time. I feel like it’s the first time I’ve taken a breath since Gideon died.

Cam comforts me as I cry into her shoulder in our bed. She doesn’t ask why. I love her for it. I say lightly, “All paths through grief are valid,” and she pulls me tighter.

“All paths through grief are valid,” she echoes, and she kisses the crown of my head.

“I love you,” I say. It’s the first time.

Cam doesn’t say anything for a long time. I wonder if I should be worried, but I know I’m not. Cam has made it clear through her actions that she loves me too. That’s who Camilla is. She’s a woman of actions, not of words. She rubs my shoulder, leaning down. I almost drift off when I hear her say, “I love you, too, Harrow.”

That night, Gideon visits me one more time. I know this will be the last. _You’re doing so good, Harrow. I’m so proud of you baby. I’m just going out for a bit. I’ll be back before dinner, promise. I’m so proud, Harrow._ She echoes in my skull, and I can almost see her golden eyes in front of me. I can almost feel her touch me. I know if I move, she’ll be gone forever. This is my last time with the Gideon in my mind. Her ghost.

So, I lie still in Cam’s embrace, and let Gideon tell me how proud she is of me, how I’m doing so good. I let the words roll off her memory. The memory has changed again. I know what she was proud of me for. She’s proud of me for moving on. I’m doing so good in letting her go. She’s just going out for a bit, and someday I’ll follow her. But this time, she won’t be back before dinner.

Cam breaks my reverie, a finger wiping a tear that has escaped from my eye. “Gideon again?” she asks.

“She says she’s proud of me,” I say.

“She should be.” Cam kisses me, soft and tender and loving. “I’m proud of you, Harrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> All I'm saying is that Harrow and Cam have more in common with their cav/necro gone than they did with them around, and also they'd be cute together okay.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/moonsmoocher), where I am gay.


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